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Arwel and Edwyn tumbled to the ground, both grunting with lethal intent as they rolled over each other. Everyone knew Edwyn as the village bully so when Arwel staggered up, and Edwyn didn’t, you knew something had gone wrong.

Bewildered, you peeped again from the behind the bush where you stooped and saw a passerby stop over Edwyn’s inert form. From his reaction, you could tell something bad had happened. Edwyn would never rise again! Horror mixed with confusion swept through you.

It’d again happened the exact way you’d written it in the diary. How Arwel would finally stand up to Edwyn, how they’d fight again near the stream, leaving the bully dead.

You still couldn’t understand how, but the things you’d written in the new diary were suddenly coming to life.

You first noticed it this morning when the stubborn black goat strangely stuck its stupid head in-between the two rocks behind the cabin only to forget how to remove it, just as you’d written it. You’d always wanted a diary, a place to pour your mind. And you found one last night on the rocky path after you flounced out, following the brawl with Mother. Now, who would have thought you possessed the power to write to life.

You sobbed as people began gathering round Edwyn’s body, Arwel looked shaken. Your heart went out to him.

And then it hit you!

Mother!

What you’d written about her after the quarrel! It mustn’t come to pass. Forgetting the empty wooden bucket, you surged out from the bush and peeled towards the cabin. You had to get the diary and erase your writings!

A few minutes later, you stomped in. You were late. It had happened. The mean things you’d written came back to you.

‘…Mother got me angry again all because of food! How I wish she’d just choke on the food she was fussing about! Arrrgh! I just want to die already!’

On the chair opposite you lay your mother with strings of spaghetti hanging out of the corners of her mouth.

“I’m…I’m…so…sorry, mother… I didn’t know!” you wailed.

Without thinking twice, you darted inside your small room. Scurrying to your small box, you flung it open. The diary was gone!

“Are you looking for this, my dear girl?” a gentle voice said from behind, one word at a time. “Because I’ve been searching for it too… Tell me, why did you pick my diary?”

You turned sharply. She stood motionless in black robes with the hood drawn up, her hands in the sleeves of the opposite arms. She filled the doorway, not just with her size, but with her presence. The diary dangled below her face, held by nothing visible.

You instantly forgot how to talk as she took a step, slowly approaching you.

“I’ll be fast in granting your last wish, my girl,” she drawled.

A force hit you and you were launched backwards against the wall. Your last words in the diary came rushing back as you sunk into darkness.

About shakespeareanwalter

Walt Shakes(@Walt_Shakes) is an award-winning Nigerian writer, poet and veteran blogger. He is a lover of the written word. the faint whiff of nature, the flashing vista of movies, the warmth of companionship and the happy sound of laughter.

About Us

The images of one's mind are like snapshots of a camera. As such, this blog is like my album, a place where I store and show the pictures worth keeping. This is my take on the word through my lens and into the aperture of my mind, imprinted on the film of my mind. I wash the negatives and put out my mind snaps. :-)